Rubber Cell
by qweerlittlefish
Summary: AU Bart Allen is not crazy. He's just ADHD, and think's he's from the future...and he just happens to live in a mental hospital. He' doesn't talk much and his social skills, on a scale of one-ten, are about minus twelve. And yet he makes a friend, albeit one who talks to himself. A friend who becomes a lot more, and changes everything.
1. Chapter 1

**On the poll, on my profile, the top votes were for a Bluepulse story, and an AU.**

**So here it is. The title may change, though.**

**There's not really much Bluepulse in this chapter, but...just wait for it. I promise it'll be here.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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_March 22nd, 2007._

_Dear New Friend, _

Before we start, I just want to get this out into the open; I'm not crazy.

I'm a little bit hyperactive, a lot OCD, and I think I'm from the future- but don't let that deter you. I swear, I'm not a madman. Just because my parents sent me to an insane asylum, does not specifically mean I'm insane...and even if I am, I'm getting a lot better.

I can sit still for about five minutes now, which is better than five seconds.

I think before I speak.

I don't talk to people, I don't make friends or leave my room- you know, so I don't get in the way. That's one thing my parents both agreed on- and partially, I think that's why they sent me away. Not because I seriously bounce of the walls if my emotions aren't intact, nor because I got kicked out of every school I attended...just because I was a bad influence, or better yet, an extra button, in the shirt of my family. My parents would always look at each other with the most grim expressions when I tried to tell my younger siblings about the future. They'd pull me away when I got too mad, or too overstimulated. I was just an extra effort that they couldn't afford to have, I suppose.

That's why I'm holding my ground, and saying that I'm absolutely not demented. Just a little weird until you get to know me. So I suppose I'll allow that much.

The windowsill is my favourite spot. It rains all the time here, and when the glass steams up, I draw pictures. I'm not going to boast to you, because I know I can't draw...but I do draw. Specifically, I draw things from the future. Like I said before, I'm not from this time period.

I can't explain it though, it's a mindset.

The doctors all say it's in my head. They say it's impossible, and far-fetched. I don't know yet how I'm going to prove them wrong. Maybe if they live long enough, they'll notice just how correct my predictions- or statements- about the future, are. For now though, I'll happily sit tapping the window, waiting for my parents to come pick me up.

They said they would. Despite the fact I'm still on medication, and have poor social skills, they promised I'd only have to live in the asylum for a year (or so). I suppose they emphasised the _or so_. I've been in the same place since turning twelve years old- I'm almost sixteen now.

Still, I'm hopeful. I know the doctors give me sad looks when I walk past, and a few have already taken me by the shoulders, gazed at me with sad, glazed over eyes, and told me my parents have 'passed'.

Whatever test they've accomplished, I really hope it's worth it. I stopped sending letters a while back, after getting a message saying my family didn't live where I was sending them too. I think I must've mixed up the address, and I can't remember the real one.

The reason I'm writing, is because I don't have much else to do. Other than draw on windows, and ponder. Or do both at the same time. My psychologist, Dr. Miranda; an old, smelly woman (don't tell her I said that), with clothes two sizes too small, told me that writing to someone would help me express. Other than expressing my obvious need to communicate, I don't think it's helping.

I suppose I'll go back to scratching lines into the blue plaster wall, next to my blue metal framed bed now. I've been doing one a day since I came here...but sometimes I forget to, and sometimes, I just scratch at the wall, creating extra marks. I've lost count, and I don't have a calender.

When I can't sleep at night, because my meds make me too numb, recounting them three-thousand times usually helps.

Yours,

_Bart Allen._

* * *

_March 25th, 2007_

_Friend,_

As of late, it's been getting difficult again. I thought, maybe, that I'd finally be somewhat normal...but it's just not working out. Someone tried to talk to me at breakfast a few days ago- "Hey kiddo, can you pass us the salt?", and as much as I wanted to reply, with a fantastic grin, and a "top of the morning to you, no problem!", I just grimaced, and threw the salt at the man. Needless to say, with my luck, the top flew off, and the salt sprayed the man in his eyes. He screamed, my insane house-mates screamed in response, and pretty soon, the mess-hall was thrown into mass-hysteria.

That means prohibition. Intentionally hurting someone with our hands, means our hands are bound for the duration of time until the person gets better. It's extreme, but no investigators come here, so the workers instil their own punishments.

If it's not obvious, my hands have just been unbound.

I don't know why I reacted the way I did. A few workers mumbled about me wanting attention, but to be honest, all I want is a friend. I just couldn't control my arms when the man spoke...or maybe the man triggered that response within me. I don't know. It hasn't happened for a while- and I swear, it won't happen again. I will NOT talk to any more potential friends...except for you, and that's only because I need somewhere to let my fingers tap away...otherwise they'll start scratching the walls again, and I like my fingernails on my fingers.

Hoping things will get better,

_Bart Allen._

* * *

_April 14th _

_Let me humour you,_

Something impossible happened. Something crazier than me or the others.

I met him. Two days ago- and...I kinda think that maybe there is something good in this world. Even though I screwed up a little, I suddenly feel like there's hope.

It was my sixteenth birthday two days ago. I only recognised it because it was like every single day of my life for four years, but I got a slice of meatloaf, instead of mashed potato or porridge. And some kid sent by the admin office brought me a squishy balloon and wished me, "Everlasting prosperity, and lots of free food...duuuuudddeee."

Doesn't get better than that.

The events of that day were making me agitated. I sunk down into my bed, inhaling slowly. Doctor Gruph said that was what I had to do when I got frustrated- and boy was I.

I'd woken up to Kevin, the boy next door, scratching at my door and making cat noises. Putting a pillow over my head didn't help, because he got louder. Shutting my eyes was a waste of energy, since he carried on yelling 'meow' at the top of his voice, until it changed more to sobbing, and he started hitting his head against the entrance to my room. I heard them drag him away, and after a few minutes, the workers at the asylum barged into my room, threw me a towel, and promptly told me it was shower day.

16 for less than seven unofficial hours, and I was already been treated to a personal alarm and a cold-shower surrounded by naked, mentally-ill boys. I was so lucky, I could feel it welling up in my chest.

Unsurprisingly things got better.

"Allen, why are you wearing that?"I was interrogated as soon as I fumbled into the mess hall, by Bertha- an elephant of a carer, with moles lining up like planets on her face. She examined me with a look of disgust.

I wasn't in my regulation robe or hospital gown- some of my doctors had voted against it, saying I deserved a choice. I wasn't the craziest person around, and I knew at least what clothing was socially acceptable. I'd donned some heavily worn jeans, and an orange and yellow striped jumper, but I'm sure all Bertha saw was a breach of her sacred laws.

She grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the room, her face contorted with anger. I tried to wriggle out of her grip, praying to evade the sewer stench that poured out of her mouth. She mumbled crude words about me under her breath, and led me back to my room.

When we arrived, she furrowed her brow, like she was trying to remember why she was punishing me. She hobbled into my room, handing me a white gown. I rolled my eyes dramatically, and started taking off my shirt.

She somewhat respected my privacy, and stalked out of the room unevenly. As soon as she was out of sight though, I pulled my normal clothing back on and went to sit in the long corridor a few metres away from my room, next to a vending machine.

And...that's when I saw him.

He walked up to the machine, mumbling- no, arguing- with himself.

Because I'm a _total_ social butterfly, I slid even further to the 'protective' metal surface of the machine, using it as a barrier, and started taking slow sips of my drink. The doctors tell me I shouldn't try to talk to people, because they'll freak out.

I think they just knew I'd freak out though. Not because I was so scared of hissing at poor people who talk to me, but...because I hated seeing how they judged me as soon as I opened my mouth. Those experiences were the ones that made me cry (but only a little, I'm not a sissy).

"Hi."

Before I could react, he sat down next to me, and took a huge gulp of his own drink. Cola- not too dysfunctional.

"Why are you in here?"

He said it like we were prison mates, and he looked so nonchalant, I half-expected him to nod and 'relate', even if I said I was a serial killer.

I swallowed hard, and looked to the floor. I had to convince myself that my tongue was lead in my mouth- I had to keep quiet. I had to.

"I'll talk for the both of us." He smiled, and bit his lip. "You seem nice." I kept my gaze on the floor. I didn't know how much longer I could hold out...

"I'm Jaime Reyes."

I couldn't stop myself after that. Those were the trigger words. At the top of my lungs, I yelled, "I'M FROM THE FUTURE!"

Real smooth.

"Cool." He didn't smirk, or spit on me, or choke-up, or scream. He just nodded, and looked semi-interested.

"I'll see you later, Future kid." He stood up, "I'm in Room 178, by the way. I have lunch at two." He raised a dark eyebrow, "My carer, Henry, is looking for me." He strolled off, letting a soft monologue slip from his lips as he did. He shook his head numerous times, disagreeing with himself.

Room 178. That meant he was on Floor 1. Floor 1 was for Schizophrenics, and Psychotics. And people with serious behavioural issues.

Doctor's say I have ADHD, and some sort of Species dysphoria- no, I don't want to be an animal...I just don't feel like I'm the human that is supposed to live in 2007. It's like, I was born in the wrong generation...but that generation hasn't actually come about yet.

Anyway, I'm on Level 3- its just for depressed and discontent people. Like me. Or like what the doctors have categorised me as. It wouldn't be hard getting into his room from mine (not that I'm creepy enough to try), but if the rumours were true, getting out would be hell.

After he left, I tried to scratch my name into the drink-machine. When my fingers started shaking, because I was getting aggravated, I left for my room.

That's how I ended up taking deep breaths on my bed.

_Bart Allen_

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**Hope you enjoyed, so far. **

**Please leave a review if you get the chance.**

**-Fish**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all of the reviews last chapter; they seriously mean so much to me. Due to the response, here's another chapter. **

**I'm sorry it took so long to chug out, but I hope, nevertheless, you enjoy.**

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_April 28th, 2007._

_Friend,_

He sat down next to me today. The usual mess of dark-locks on his head slicked back with cheap hair gel, and he insisted on keeping all of his food separate- something about '_them_' plotting to poison him. I kept my food separate because I'm OCD. _Just sayin'_.

"How are you, Bart?" He asked, food in mouth. He nodded when I stared at him, trying once again to hold my words within. "Sounds cool! I'm good, myself." He pointed to his hair, "Looks nice, right?"

He must've caught me flushing red and gawking at him. Still, he beamed and continued his monologue, "Mom sent me a package of stuff."

He locked his jaw, and dug his fingernails into his hand. His sudden change in demeanour was frightening, but I stayed put. I hadn't seen the guy, let alone spoken to him, for two weeks. He was refreshing.

"I swear, _he_ tried to convince me the stuff was poisonous." He tapped his head, "Sometimes you don't have to listen."

"_He_...as in your carer?" I finally spoke, swallowing some porridge down painfully.

Jaime looked amused, before placing a peeled apple into his mouth. "I mean the voices; _you_ wouldn't understand." Jaime shrugged nonchalantly, "I suppose they don't have schizophrenics or psychotics in the future?"

I let my jaw drop. He _remembered?_ It could've been my boyish charm...but I was doubtful. I think I actually made an impact through words- sure, maybe it's because I was teetering on a fine-line of crazy... but still, a strange feeling welled up in my chest.

I didn't bother answering him. He'd already changed topic, and was chatting to himself about the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, and how different they'd be with a different _coloured _name. As confused as I was, I listened, and soon enough, he turned his attention back to me, a lop-sided smile playing at his lips.

"You know, Bart, you're fun to talk to." He smirked. "You listen. Treat me normal." He sighed, almost contently. "You don't talk much- but I don't mind."

I smiled back. I'd listened to him twice, but I felt, oddly enough, like we were friends.

"My carer is staring at me." Jaime pointed to the left, without lifting his head. "He's plotting my murder, you know?" He stood up, slouching. "I'd better go." He sniffed, "Before he takes out his gun..." He rambled on for a few minutes more, finally taking a deep breath and blinking slowly.

He made his way partially from the table, before turning and sending a small wave my way, "I have a free, no therapy day tomorrow. See you around." He nodded, "Yes I will." Then he retreated, moving his arms as if caught up in a deep debate.

I, Bart Allen, practically felt my cheeks split open as I smiled.

* * *

_May 11th, 2007_

_Hola,_

Jaime is from a Spanish home. When he gets mad, he swears in his native tongue. I makes me wish I had a quality about myself that other people could pick up. You see, since seeing the guy every breakfast and some lunches for the past week, I've adopted, unintentionally, some of his habits.

And when my secondary _(fun)_ carer and I went shopping a few days ago, I bought a blue hoodie, like the one Jaime wears after six, when we're allowed to meet up in the '_casual room_'. The room surrounded by carers, filled with crazies...but which shows decent movies and has plenty of sitting space.

I'm not trying to copy him, or anything. I'm not even trying to be super observant. It's just, I haven't had a good friend in a while. I think that if you see a person so often, it's only a matter of time before their mannerisms begin to engulf you. I believe that when two people start getting to know each other, it's important to attempt to understand them...even if the conversations are normally one-sided.

In fact, they were pretty much one-sided up until today.

The Hispanic boy met me in the '_casual room_', plopping down on a beanbag and reciting the events of his day. They always seemed so much more interesting than mine. His cereal changed colour, someone's face morphed into that of a dogs, and a boy too young to be in _this_ place followed him around, laughing hysterically, singing 'Perfect' until his voice cracked and he dissolved.

Jaime rubbed his temples when he was done, biting his lip nervously. For once, it looked as if he was stumped- he had no idea what to say. That was, until, he asked me how my day was.

What was I supposed to tell him? _Yeah, my cereal got up and started tap dancing and then everyone from the future sent me coded messages_? Obviously, I wasn't going to lie. But I was just so incredibly dull. I practically oozed _boring_.

"I sat on my window sill, watched it rain, drew a picture of a cat...and after eating, came here." I smiled softly, tracing the lines on the palm of my hand. My finger flew off the tracks I had discovered when Jaime scoffed. I had to catch my breath. I wasn't frightened...but...maybe I was a _little _bit skittish. My neck receded slightly into my shoulders as I practically died of embarrassment.

Jaime shook his head, "No offence, _hermano_, but your life seems miserable. And normal." He raised an eyebrow, "Are you sure you're crazy?"

I shook my head, "I'm not crazy." I hummed, before wringing my hands, and mumbling for what seemed like the billionth time in my life, _I'm from the future. _

Jaime leaned back on his beanbag, his brow furrowed. "I believe you, and I don't see _why_." He looked at me, some strands of his hair falling across his forehead, "Why _t__hat _should put you in here, I mean." He motioned with his arms, letting me take in the expanse of the room.

Dolly, an old-timer, sung to herself softly, while petting a knitted cat. Her hands shook, and if you looked closely enough, silvery tears running down her calloused face, and onto her plaid skirt, could be made-out.

A twenty-something-year-old, Bill, was hugging the TV. He rubbed his face against the plastic, shuddering. I'd heard that his obsession with plastic had landed him in here- when he'd tried to eat his food container.

Three carers lounged around. Every day they looked a little more strained...their eyes glazing over, or looking in different directions, more and more. Bethesda, who'd been here a year, clutched a stress ball, and took ragged breaths, as another patient, who I couldn't recall the name of, clicked her fingers five times in a row every five minutes.

A man named Bruce, who looked youthful, despite allegations that he'd been here since the 50's, held a basket-ball, which he threw at playful patrons periodically, asking about their day and forcing crease coated smiles.

A lanky carer, here on training, looked bored as he pressed the buttons on his latest Nokia, sending his seventh message in two minutes. I knew what the world had in stock. I snorted softly at his antics- _primitive. _

Getting back to what Jaime had stated, to be honest, I didn't really know why I was in here either. I was hardly as _broken _as some of these people. Then again, I'd never seen myself from a distance. Maybe they all thought they were normal too, and inside their minds, everyone else was delusional. Maybe their theories were just as true as mine.

I shrugged, finally looking back to Jaime, who spoke roughly under his breath. When he noticed me waiting, he tightened his lips.

"I'm here because my parents put me here." I placed my hands supportively behind my neck, "You see, not everyone believes me like you do." I sighed; I needed to confide in someone other than my doctors...but I couldn't really bring myself to do it. "My parents are gonna pick me up; I'll go back to _normal life_ and then, when I get the signal, I'll go back to the future."

Jaime shook his head, "Well, I believe you...even though you haven't told me anything." He gave me a sheepish look, "I'm pretty open to stuff like this." He sighed, "Don't get me wrong..."

And that's when I knew I was about to be offended, scolded, or laughed at. Or all three...

"...I'm a psycho, kiddo- but I'm still all here." He laughed; it seemed that he wished he'd chosen his words more wisely, "I know when not to judge- just like I'm sure you they taught you, here."

He was right. I'd received lecture upon lecture about how to react to different levels of madness from weird, to kooky, to psychotic. I knew what faces not to make, and I knew how to act during different events. I knew when I should nod, and just agree...and say, _I believe you..._

"So...you're just supporting me. You do think I'm crazy."

"Nah, hermano. You're the most sane person here."

I tried to detect sarcasm in his tone, but I suppose my eyes weren't tuned finely enough- I couldn't pick up on it.

Jaime stood up, stretching. I listened to his joints click and creak in protest as his did. He shuffled his feet on the beige carpet momentarily, before smiling, "My carer is trying to read my mind." He winked, "Don't want him finding out precious information about..." He nudged my side with his foot, "...you know. The future."

On the contrary. I wished I could tell the world what was coming- but even though it wouldn't land me in the padded cell I sometimes called my holiday-retreat, it would earn me judgemental looks, sometimes filled with pity or disbelief. I shuddered. I hated being subject to that.

Jaime shut his eyes, taking deep breaths, before turning away and walking briskly out of the door.

Sometimes, it was hard being his friend.

Sometimes, I couldn't quite tell what mood he was in, or guess how he was going to react. I wished I could open up to him- but he'd sent me more mixed signals than a pregnant, flirty cat on steroids, standing in a dog-shelter.

_Bart Allen_

* * *

**In response to one reviewer, I wanted to point out that Bart is writing to the reader, as in, _you. _The hospital isn't forcing him to write; he does so to retain his sanity. Think of this as a private journal, in which Bart writes everything- stuff he wouldn't dare say out loud. Stuff he needs to get out of his system. You are his fabricated make-believe friend.**

**In addition, Bart is very much literate as he went to school, came from a literate and respectable family and is an intelligent boy. He simply chooses to not talk to avoid the glares and the looks of disbelief. He also doesn't talk, as the people he confides in, often tell him he shouldn't _make stuff up._ Of course, I haven't yet addressed this; that's for another day, another chapter.**

**Hope I could clear that up. :)**


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